All Chapters of Hate Should Be A Hockey Term: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

102 Chapters

The Crashout

SLOANEThe words hung in the air, the final, brutal blows in a fight that had left us both bloodied and broken. We stood there, the space between us charged with everything we’d said and everything we hadn’t, the wreckage of our argument scattered around us like shrapnel.And then he moved.It wasn’t a decision. It was a collision. One second we were a foot apart, the next he was on me—hands fisting in the front of my camisole, slamming me back against the wall with a force that made the picture frames rattle and a dry gasp tear from my throat.And then his mouth was on mine.This wasn’t a kiss. It was a war.Every vicious word we’d just screamed at each other, every pointed jab, every unspoken resentment—all of it boiled over into this single, violent act. His lips were bruising, desperate, punishing. I kissed him back just as hard, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. It was all teeth and tongue and raw, unfiltered rage. I bit his lower lip—not gently—and

The Erasure

SLOANEThe silence that followed wasn’t a truce. It was a ceasefire. A fragile, terrifying thing held together by the sound of our ragged breathing and the low, steady hum of the refrigerator.He stumbled back another step, running a hand through his already-destroyed hair. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine—darting from the floor to the ceiling to the grease stain on the stove—anywhere but at the wreckage he’d just created against the wall.“I’m—” he started, voice raw and broken. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “I’m gonna…”He didn’t finish. Just turned and fled.I heard his bare feet pounding up the stairs. Two at a time. The sound of his bedroom door closing—softly, not with a slam, which was somehow worse—echoed down like a gunshot.I stood there, back pressed to the cool plaster, and slid slowly down the wall until my bare ass hit the cold tile. My camisole was twisted. My lips felt swollen and bruised. I could still taste the metallic tang of his blood and the faint, savory ghos

The Silent Truce

CHASEThe dining room table felt like a fucking courtroom.Every night at seven we sat down. Me, Sloane, Richard, Mom. Four place settings. Four chairs. And an invisible, electric fence running right down the middle, separating my side from hers.I couldn’t look at her.Not directly. It was like trying to stare at the sun. The attempt alone sent a sharp, piercing pain through my skull. So I focused on the things around her: the way her fork scraped against the ceramic plate, the slight rhythmic bounce of her knee under the table when she thought no one was watching, the dark glossy fall of her hair as she bent her head over her food.I memorized the periphery. Because the center was a fucking minefield.Last night had been lemon herb chicken. Tonight was spaghetti and meatballs. The irony was so thick you could spread it on garlic bread. I’d spent the entire meal staring at a single perfectly spherical meatball on my plate, moving it around with my fork, my appetite completely gone. A

The Off-Switch

CHASEThe front door closing behind me felt like the airlock sealing on a submarine. I was escaping. The duffel bag slung over my shoulder wasn’t just full of skates, sticks, and workout gear; it was full of distance. A full week of it.The drive to the camp facility—three hours north, tucked into a pine-scented corner of the state—was supposed to be a reset. Time to clear my head. Time to focus on the only thing that mattered: hockey.For the first hour, it worked. I cranked the stereo—some aggressive punk band I hadn’t listened to since high school—and let the noise drown out everything else. The memory of her mouth. The taste of her skin. The hollow, defeated way she’d said, “Yeah. A truce.”By the second hour, the music faded into background static. The silence rushed back in, louder than before. And with it came the memories. Not just the kiss. Everything. The bonfire. The kitchen at midnight. The way she’d looked at me when she told me I was still worth something. The way I’d me

The Return

SLOANEThe house felt too big without him.For the first two days, it was a relief. The air was lighter. The constant, low-level thrum of tension that had taken up residence in my chest finally subsided. I could walk into the kitchen without my heart hammering against my ribs. I could sit at the dinner table without feeling the heat of his gaze on the side of my face. I could breathe.I told myself this was better. This was normal. This was the way it was supposed to be.By the third day, the silence had started to curdle. It was no longer peaceful. It was empty. A hollow, echoing void where his presence used to be. I found myself listening for things that weren’t there: the heavy thud of his footsteps on the stairs, the sound of his car pulling into the driveway, the low, infuriatingly attractive rumble of his voice when he was on the phone.I was miserable.And I refused to admit why.I threw myself into work with a manic intensity that bordered on self-destruction. I wrote three pi

The Inevitable

CHASEI lasted forty-five minutes in my room.Shower. Change. Fifteen minutes lying on my back staring at the ceiling fan. Ten minutes pretending to scroll through my phone. Five minutes arguing with myself.Then I got up.The house was quiet in the way it got after nine—Mom and Richard probably asleep.Her light was on. The thin gold line under her door was the only brightness in the dark hallway.I knocked once. Quiet. Deliberate.A beat of silence.“Yeah?”I pushed the door open.She was at her desk, laptop open, a half-empty mug of something that had probably been hot an hour ago sitting beside the keyboard. Her hair was down—loose, dark, spilling over one shoulder. She’d changed from whatever she’d been wearing when I came home into an oversized tee and those sleep shorts that had been ruining my life for three weeks.“Hey,” I said.“Hey.” Her voice was careful. Controlled. The same register she used when she was deciding how much to give.I stepped inside. Left the door open—del

Weightless

SLOANEThe pool house door clicked shut behind us with the soft finality of a vault sealing.No lock. No need. The rest of the house was asleep, the hallway lights off, Victoria and Dad’s bedroom door closed at the far end of the first floor. We’d crept down the back staircase like teenagers breaking curfew—bare feet silent on hardwood, breath held every time a floorboard sighed under weight. Chase had gone first, one hand trailing the banister, the other reaching back once to find mine in the dark. I’d let him take it. Just for the stairs.Now the door was closed and the only light came from the underwater glow of the pool outside the glass wall—shifting blue-green ripples painting slow, liquid patterns across the teak floor, the built-in benches, the low sectional piled with throw pillows nobody ever used.He turned on the lights.We stood there—maybe three feet apart—breathing too loud in the sudden quiet.My heart was trying to climb out of my throat. His chest rose and fell i

Too Much

SLOANEHe reached down, positioning himself at my entrance. He started to push inside—slow, so slow, so careful. The stretch was immediate and intense, a sharp, burning ache that made every muscle in my lower body clench instinctively.“Easy,” he soothed, freezing mid-motion. “Breathe with me, Sloane. Just breathe. Relax for me. Let me in.”I forced air into my lungs, consciously unclenching. He pushed forward again—a fraction of an inch at a time. The burn stayed, but it began to shift, blending into a deep, full pressure that was starting to feel… different. Not good yet. Just… different.He watched my face the whole time, eyes dark with focus and worry. “Okay?”“Yeah,” I gasped. “Keep going.”He did. Inexorably. Filling me inch by agonizing inch until I felt split open, stretched beyond what seemed possible. Tears pricked my eyes—not from pain exactly, but from the sheer, staggering *fullness* of it. Too much sensation. Too much of *him*.Finally he bottomed out, hips flush to mine

Rules

CHASEI woke up hard.Not the lazy morning wood that fades after the first piss. This was full, throbbing, relentless—the kind that replays last night in high-definition slow motion. Her thighs locked around my waist in the pool. The way she’d sobbed my name when I hit that spot. The hot, slick gush when she came so hard she soaked us both. The broken little “no more” that turned into “don’t stop” five seconds later.I rolled onto my back, sheet tented over my hips, and grinned at the ceiling like an idiot.She’d *squirted*. My sharp-tongued, wall-building stepsister—virgin until roughly seven hours ago—had fucking *squirted* on my cock like she’d been saving it up for years.And then she’d tried to quit.Tried.I laughed—low, rough, still half-asleep—and palmed myself through the sheet just to take the edge off. One slow stroke. Two. Fuck, I could still feel her. Tight. Wet. Clenching like she wanted to keep me inside forever even while she was crying uncle.I’d stopped—eventuall

The Summer We Broke the Rules

CHASEThis summer turned into a fever dream of fucking.The shower was our sanctuary in those first reckless weeks. We’d thrown the “only when they’re not home” rule out the window. Hot water drowned out every gasp, every wet slap of skin, every broken moan she tried to choke back. I’d pull her in after morning skate or in the dead of night, strip her bare in seconds, pin her against the tiles—chest to her back—and hoist one of her legs high to sink in deep from behind.That angle—her balanced on one foot, my arm hooked under her thigh, spreading her wide—let me hit every spot that made her tremble. I’d start slow, letting her feel every inch dragging out and slamming back in, then build—faster, harder—until the water pounded down and her forehead pressed against the tile, mouth open in a silent scream.“Quiet, baby,” I’d growl against her ear, teeth grazing the shell. “You want Mom to hear how filthy you get for your stepbrother?”She’d whimper—clench around me so tight I’d see stars

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